


Vatican Cameos

by 2babyturtles



Series: Vatican Cameos [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anger, Danger Night, Developing Relationship, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Explicit descriptions of pain, Gen, Heavy Angst, M/M, One Shot Collection, Overdosing, POV Multiple, Pain, Undecided Relationship(s), Vatican Cameos, dying, lonely, trigger - Freeform, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-18 22:03:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11883732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2babyturtles/pseuds/2babyturtles
Summary: A collection of TW one shots about some of Sherlock's "Danger Nights." Tags/Warnings may change.





	1. Sharp Needles Burning

The world fades and pulses. There is a voice but it is very far away. There is a drum beating in my ears and the drum is a heartbeat and the heart is beating too slow. _My_ heart is beating too slow. I am dying.

There is a whisper of pain across what must be my chest because my heart is fighting the whisper and the whisper is extinguishing my heart. Something is rushing, as though like a flowing red river in the veins I have abused with so many needles. Except it’s not just blood and there is no river. The swirling concoctions and mixtures dampen my blood and blot out the energy it delivers to my muscles. I cannot move my muscles.

There is a voice but it is very far away.

 

* * *

“Sherlock? Sherlock!” John enters 221B for the first time in a week and Sherlock is on the floor. He’s on his side, thank God, because it looks like he’s thrown up. But why hasn’t he woken up? “Sherlock, you’ve gone too far,” he moans, ignoring the vomit as he kneels beside Sherlock and pulls his head and torso onto his lap. He checks for a pulse and can hardly feel anything. He pulls a credit card out of his pocket and checks for breath under Sherlock’s nose, gasping desperate gulps of air when he sees the fog of his breath against the card.

Sherlock’s eyes open a fragment and he stares up at John with nearly blank eyes that hardly seem to recognize his friend. “John,” he whimpers, his voice ragged as it rips from his acid-burned throat. The whites of his eyes are no longer white and his nose drips blood in small drops. He chokes and his eyes fade. “Vatican Cameos.”

_Someone’s going to die._

 

* * *

The world is still and I am not of it. John is in the world and I cannot reach him. And I am shaking.

There is fire in my lungs as I choke and there is fire in my blood as I burn. I am burning and I am shaking and I am going to die. I cannot reach John and I cannot even see him. There is a voice but it is very far away.

 

* * *

 “Mrs. Hudson, call an ambulance!” John screams, his voice ripping through his chest. He can taste blood in his throat but he doesn’t care. He returns Sherlock to the floor, careful to keep him on his side and rips his jacket off, placing it under Sherlock’s head. “He’s having a seizure, he’s dying!”

The sound of footsteps downstairs reassure John that Mrs. Hudson head him and that an ambulance is coming. “You have to live,” he whispers hoarsely, holding Sherlock in place as best he can. He’s surprised to realize he’s crying when hot tears fall on Sherlock’s face. He is afraid to close his eyes but the sight in front of him is unbearable. Foam forms around Sherlock’s mouth, spit bubbling as he seizes. John tries to check again that he’s breathing but is afraid to cut Sherlock with the card and decides to wait until he stops.

_Someone’s going to die._

 

* * *

There is burning heat and pain and I am on fire. There is emptiness and blackness and I am in hell and I have brought myself here at the end of a needle. There is desperation and fear and I am alone in my head and cannot find the way out.

The shaking stops. The lights come on. There is a coolness and I drink it in, gulping hungrily despite my body’s protests. The pain in my chest as feathered and my shoulders and stomach and back are aching. My legs are stiff. My head is throbbing.

But I have a body. I have some relief. There is a voice and it is not so far away.

 

* * *

 “You’re going to make it, Sherlock,” John whispers, leaning against the hospital bed and smoothing Sherlock’s curls. “You’re going to make it, you can wake up.” His voice is full of tears and his eyes are full of agony. His is the face of a man on fire, watching as his world burns in his arms. And his world has burned. Sherlock has burned.

He made a call to Mycroft when Sherlock was stabilized, and Mycroft just called back. The flat should be clean now. It should have been clean before.

“I’m so sorry,” he whimpers, pressing his forehead against Sherlock’s arm. “I should’ve been by, I should’ve made sure you were okay.” There is no anger in his voice and the frustration of having found Sherlock with drugs so many times before is erased by the pain in his chest as he watches, hoping Sherlock recovers.

The nurse isn’t sure if Sherlock’s brain will be the same or what sort of damage has been done. But he’s not going to die. He’s going to pull through.

 

* * *

I am alive and my heart is beating. My blood is full of sloshy liquid and I am hydrated. I am full of needles and covered in sticky pads. There are hands on me and they are the soft, warm hands of my world. I am not burning and my world is keeping me aloft. My eyes open and I see that John is looking at me.

“I thought you were going to die,” he whispers, tears dripping down his face.

“I did, too,” I respond. The sting of wet heat against my own cheeks tell me I am crying, too. “I didn’t mean to,” I mumble, embarrassed as much by my failure as by the choking sobs in my throat.

He puts his head against my shoulder and mumbles something I can’t hear. His eyes turn to mine, blurred through the fresh wave of tears. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“I’m not going to let you go,” he returns, placing a hand against my chest and moving his head to the top of my shoulder. I slide, leaning towards him so we can be closer. “Vatican Cameos?” he whispers. “You really thought you were going to… to….”

“I couldn’t say goodbye,” I whisper, tilting my head to place my cheek against his hair. “I’m sorry.”


	2. Glass Bottles Breaking

My tongue is flames and my throat is acid. My words disappear into my voice as I babble, slurring the sentences I try to make. My head is full of a fog I cannot think around and there is a dull ache that seems to pulse with my heartbeat. But I do have a heartbeat, a small comfort in this cold night. My eyes are closed but I can smell copper blood. Somehow, I think it’s in my mouth, but I can’t taste past the bitter sensation of alcohol.

* * *

   “Yeah, no, he’s been gone for a couple of hours.” John paces 221B as he speaks into the receiver. Greg is on the other side and they’ve put out a notice to all officers to keep an eye out for Sherlock Holmes.

 “And you’ve no idea where he might’ve gone?” Greg asks, his own voice only barely more controlled than John’s. Of course, John is brimming with anger. Greg is just worried, and perhaps a little exasperated.

 “No, I… I don’t know.” He can’t help fearing the worst, but he doesn’t know how to tell Greg that Sherlock might not be found alive. He doesn’t know how to explain that Sherlock never calls him and getting a pocket dial from the detective was more than a little unlikely. So when his phone rang and all he could hear was grunting, shouting, and the sound of Sherlock’s coat pocket scratching against the microphone, he couldn’t help fearing the worst.

 “But you don’t think he’s on drugs?”

 “No one ever thinks he’s on drugs,” John replies, frustrated. “He could be. I don’t know. He didn’t seem high but then he doesn’t usually, does he?”

* * *

 There is dirt against my face and my face is torn skin. There is pain in my joints and my arms are pinned against my stomach. I wonder what a sight I must be but cannot seem to remember what I look like through the haze in my brain. I try to open my eyes but they are swelled shut and the effort makes my head pulse. My thoughts turn black for a moment and my sensations fade. I become nothing.

* * *

 Flashing lights and sirens fill John’s mind and he can almost keep from fretting. His worry feels like a tight knot in his stomach and he can hardly swallow past the lump in his throat. With lips pressed together and eyebrows furrowed darkly over heavy eyes, he is certainly not a man to be messed with.

He walks along the sidewalk, swinging his arms stiffly and swinging his eyes desperately. He must find Sherlock. Some part of him registers that Sherlock is probably fine, but he has generally learned not to ignore his gut feelings and his gut says something is wrong. Sherlock had been acting so strange.

He kept replaying the last time he’d seen him before he left that afternoon.

 

_“Vatican Cameos, John, Vatican Cameos!” Sherlock shouted, arms in the air, robe flitting about his legs._

_“Sherlock, what’re you on about? What’s wrong with you?” John asked, worried, as he set the groceries down on the table. “Have you eaten recently?”_

_Sherlock seemed dazed, as if he wasn’t even really looking at the room. “No, no, of course not. I haven’t had any groceries,” he responded, his voice returning to a more normal volume._

_“Haven’t had an- Sherlock, you can’t wait for me to pop to the supermarket for you, you have to feed yourself.” John tried to be reasonable. He tried not to be upset. He tried to focus on putting the cans in the cupboard and the milk in the fridge. He couldn’t help noticing that the kettle didn’t seem to have been used since the last itme John had been there._

_“Vatican Cameos, John!” Sherlock shouted again, his eyes glazing over._

_“Are you high?” John finally asked, stamping out of the kitchen to approach his friend. “You can’t keep doing this when I’m not around. I have to take care of Rosie.”_

_“Ah you could move back in! Rosie could move in!”_

_John leaned back, cocking an eyebrow and scoffing sharply. “With this? You want a toddler to live here? You can hardly take care of yourself, let alone a little girl.”_

_Sherlock suddenly leaned forward, growling menacingly in John’s face.“Vatican Cameos, John Watson.”_

_John’s mouth set in a hard frown. “You know what that means, Sherlock. You can’t keep saying it.”_

_Sherlock laughed uproariously, shedding his robe and lurching towards the door. “But you don’t understand,” he grumbled. “Somebody’s going to die.”_

John shakes his head, wishing he could forget the way Sherlock’s eyes had glinted. The thought had crossed his mind that perhaps Sherlock was planning to kill someone, but he doubted that was the case. Which left only the possibly that Sherlock himself was going to die.

He shoves his hands in his pockets and focuses ahead, stumbling naturally on the bar in the distance. His eyes catch on the broken door, one he knew had been whole yesterday when he’d ridden by on his way to work. A shred of black material is caught on one of the edges and he pushes himself to a sprint, grabbing the cloth and jumping inside the bar.

“Bartender,” he demands, shaking the piece of what must be Sherlock’s coat in the man’s face. “Who did this belong to? Where did he go?”

“How should I know?” the bartender scoffs, swirling a rag around the bottom of a glass. “I don’t pay attention to the destinations of every bar rat who picks a fight in my place.”

“Picks a fi- he was in trouble?”

“Look, mate, he wasn’t the one in trouble. He picked a fight, _he_ started yelling. Acting like a crazy man, that.”

“So what’d you do?” John’s voice is raised, his nostrils flared, and anger is plain on his face. How could this man not see? How could he be so obstinante? _Sherlock is dying._

“I kicked ‘em all out! The whole lot of ‘em. Like I said, I don’t let bar rats interested in picking a fight spend time in my place.” Setting the glass down, the bartender switches to wiping down the counter, evidently engaged enough in the conversation with John.

“All of them? How many men were there?”

The bartender thinks for a moment. “Four,” he finally decides. “Your friend and three others.”

“So you left him outside, drunk, with men who were trying to fight him? Are you mad?” John doesn’t wait for an answer and dashes back out the front door. He glances around the street.

His head is foggy and he begs himself to think like Sherlock. To observe. To deduce. Where would he go if he were Sherlock? Where would Sherlock go?

No.

Where would he go if he wanted to hurt Sherlock? 

* * *

My mind is clearing and my body feels worn, like the ocean itself is dragging me along with it and I am just a single speck in its vastness. Like I am nothing. Like I have already died and my brain just doesn’t know it. Like I don’t know it. Perhaps I have died.

My sides are bound tightly and it is difficult to breathe, although it doesn’t hurt so much anymore. My lips are dry and chapped. My body, then, is alive.

John is whispering beside me, as if talking to himself but I can hear that the words are directed to me. As I recognize his voice, I begin to recognize other sounds. Like a heart monitor and a breathing apparatus attached to the tube in my mouth. Like the soft tick of the clock.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Sherlock?” John whimpers, still to himself. “What could make you like this? Why would you want this?” I can hear his shoulders slump forward by the sound of his jacket and chair moving. “Dear God,” he growls through what sound like sobs. “The world needs this man. Please don’t let him die.”

When he looks up, he sees me looking back at him and he breathes out, relieved. I search his face for a moment before turning my eyes to gesture at my own body.  I can’t speak through the tube in my mouth, and I doubt I have the words to say anything anyway.

“Four cracked ribs, a punctured lung, and abrasions from being thrown in the ditch we found you in. Minor concussion, broken wrist, and two sprained knees. But,” his eyes melt and my fear abides. “No Vatican Cameos.”

My eyes smile and I allow myself to lay back against the pillow. My eyes close and I feel myself start to drift. I’m not going to die.

“Sherlock,” he adds, his voice thick. “We can’t keep doing this. You have to get help.”

I breathe through my nose and do my best to nod. He seems to understand and pats me on the arm before leaning back in his own seat. I wait for him to fall asleep but soon drift off myself.

I can’t keep doing this.


	3. Big Brother Watching

I scowl, avoiding my brother’s gaze as I wait out my time. Soon, I simply won’t have to worry about it anymore. “I’m not addicted, Mycroft.”

“So you’ve said,” he responds past his smirk. I’m not quite sure what he’s smirking about, except perhaps that he loves to see me suffer. In any case, his voice is almost as annoying as his face and I wish I could avert my ears, too. “You’re a user, not an addict. And you simply _used_ this entire list of drugs in the past hour since John Watson left for his date. Are those two events related, I wonder….”

His tone is unbearable but I’m quite sure he’ll follow me if I leave the room, so I stay where I am, finally turning my eyes to look at him. His hair is thinning— _age, stress_ —and his eyes are sunken into deep bags— _lack of sleep, stress then_. A small frown forms lopsided— _swollen right cheek, biting himself again, LOTS of stress—_ as he peers down at his notebook. Although the small pad is usually a mess, it bears more scribbles than usual, viewable even from Sherlock’s seat across the room— _trying to solve a problem, unsuccessful—_ and the side of his right hand bears ink stains— _writing in another place, too. Big problem, then, one he thinks about on the go but is ultimately working on in another place._

I want to tell him how painfully transparent he is and how obviously his work is impacting him until I notice a red mark on his neck. “Been attacked, then?” I ask, allowing my words to drip sloppily from my mouth.

“I’m sorry?” he responds, snapping shut his notepad and clearing his throat as though I’ve started him from some sort of reverie.

“On your neck,” I respond through gritted teeth, cocking my head. I do wish he would go away. Rather than responding, he simply pulls at the collar of his coat, hiding the mark. The action only serves to draw my attention there, however, and before it’s completely concealed I realize my mistake. “Oh,” I crow, sitting up straighter. “You certainly have been attacked, Mycroft! Tell me, was she smart, too, or just pretty?”

Mycroft sighs and settles into his chair— _John’s chair_ —with a resigned sigh. “They’re never smart enough, are they? Still. I found the experience rather enjoyable.” I stick out my tongue and mime gagging before turning my eyes away from him again. Even my brother has better luck than me. Between him and John, I’m quite sure I’ll be the last to find anybody. Of course, I already have really.

“How long do you have left?” Mycroft asks, interrupting my train of thought and dragging me painfully back to reality.

“Until what?” I shoot back at him, finally deciding that it’s better to stand. He stands, exactly as I thought he would, and leans forward towards me, clutching my list in his hand.

He holds out the paper so I can see it but I push his hand aside. The movement takes some effort but I ignore the cold sweats forming on my neck and face. A growl builds in my chest and I shove past him to reach the kitchen. “Tea!” I announce, ignoring what he’s obviously getting at.

“What is ‘Vatican Cameos’?” Mycroft’s voice is still angry but he seems contemptuous now,too, and _that_ I cannot allow.

“Give it back,” I demand, reaching for the paper and ignoring the sudden stiffness in my arms and les. The list of drugs flowing through my system is nearly illegible but these two words, scribbled over and over again across the back of the slip, are perfectly clear.

“No,” he answers simply, dodging my attempt and strolling across the living room to the window. He pulls out his phone and performs a quick search. “Nothing. So you’ll have to tell me, then, Sherlock. What is ‘Vatican Cameos’?”

I sigh, disgusted with my brother’s persistence. Formulating a response carefully, I return to the kitchen and set about making tea. To my surprise, Mycroft follows me, fetching a box of biscuits from the top of the refrigerator and setting them down on the table where he sits.

My arms are beginning to shake as I fill the kettle and one knee gives out as I carry it to the stove. I just manage to set the kettle down before my lungs seem to seize and I collapse to the floor. “It means danger, Mycroft. It means somebody’s going to die.” My words come out past gritted teeth and a low groan interrupts me. I don’t know who’s screaming until my throat feels hoarse. “It’s a warning,” I gasp, “and a reminder. For John to be safe. For him to protect himself.”

“And what of you, brother mine? When will you learn to protect yourself?” He is crouching over me and gently rolls me to my side.  I only know because the pressure in my body shifts. But my head is so full of pressure I can hardly think and my vision has gone black with stars of red. I hope that it’s not my blood but my skin feels so hot that I wouldn’t know if it was.

Somehow a laugh escapes my lips, the last sound I hear before I scream again. “Vatican Cameos.”

When I open my eyes again, Mycroft is still there. He’s not taken me to the hospital, but instead setup a home flush with the tolls I have in my own chemistry equipment. I glance down at the needle in my arm, hoping for morphine but sure it’s just saline. “I hope that’s sanitary,” I mumble, putting my head back down. He’s somehow managed to move me to my own bed and the pillows feel good against my body, despite what feels like a bruise on the back of my head.

“You cannot continue to behave this way,” he murmurs, fear plain in his face. I’m surprised by the emotion, but not by the words and I respond to those instead.

“Controlled use, Mycroft,” I reply, closing my eyes. “I have a plan.”

“To die?” he bursts suddenly, voice rising to a shout. He jumps from the wooden chair he’s been sitting in, sending it to the floor, and I start. My eyes seem to be stuck, though, and opening them is difficult. I try not to let it show.

“So what if it’s to die?” I respond. I aim for levity but my voice lands closer to bitterness and I cringe at the hurt in Mycroft’s eyes. “What’s it to you, anyway? Why did you agree to come here?”

He rolls his shoulders and straightens up, drawing his face into a less heated expression. “I did not believe John.”

“Ah curiosity. Well, it is prone to killing the cat, although I think it’s satisfaction that brings it back? So are you satisfied, Mycroft? What did John say anyway?”

With dark eyes focused on my face, Mycroft seems to be watching a ghost and the haunted expression remains in place when he breaks focus to look for the chair. “That you are suicidal,” he murmurs softly, placing the chair beside my bed again. “What do you make of that?”

I am silent. I wish again for morphine and then think of the crushing sensation in my skull from earlier. “I wish I didn’t have to think,” I respond in a whisper. My voice breaks and I can tell my fever has gone down because the splash of tears on my cheeks is burning hot. “I wish I didn’t have to watch John choose everybody else.”

Mycroft’s eyes are black. His voice is hushed. “So you want to kill yourself?”

I shrug and then shake my head. “I suppose. No. Maybe. I dunno. Being high, even dangerously high, is better than being aware.”

“And Vatican Cameos?”

“I know I can’t blame John. It’s not his fault I’m…unstable. He’s the right to a happy life. I want him to know he should leave. I’m a danger and he should leave. But I can’t- I can’t- I-“ I sigh. “I can’t bear to make him go.”

He leans forward and places a hand on my arm. “You’re hurting him, brother.”

A sob reaches my chest and my eyes shut automatically, trying to block the pain before it spills more tears. “I know.”

“But you love him.” It’s not a question. It’s not even really a statement. Like a breath of wind too soft to make note of but strong enough to feel the way it tingles against your skin.

“Yes,” I respond softly.

He sighs through his nose and pats my arm again. Pushing himself to his feat, he steps around the bed and towards the hall, leaving through the door that is just out of my sight. The way he’s propped up the pillows behind me, it’s impossible to see when he’ll return, and I settle on waiting for footsteps. Soon, they sound.

They’re closer than I thought they’d be, particularly since I’d heard Mycroft walk at least as far as the kitchen. I try to turn my shoulders so I can see the door but when I shift my eyes I realize I don’t have to. John Watson, with a flat expression and dangerous eyes, has been standing in the doorway.

I close my eyes and adjust back to a centered position. “How long have you-“

“All of it. I heard all of it, Sherlock.”

I glance down at my IV and realize that Mycroft likely wouldn’t have performed such a procedure so neatly. I want to thank him but words catch in my throat. I want to apologize but I can’t do that either.

He moves around the bed, taking the seat Mycroft had recently occupied, and turning on me with dark eyes. The soft blue is covered with a heavy grey and grief is etched in his expression. He clasps his hands together.

“You have to know,” he finally says, speaking slowly. “That you can’t keep doing this.”

I snort and stare at him with an eyebrow raised. “Of all the things I expected you to-“

“Shut up,” he growls. “I’m not finished. You cannot keep doing this. You’re going to die.”

My eyes flick across his face and I nod, understanding.

“You must have figured out by now that I love you.” As if my blood stops. As if the world’s spinning ceases. As if everything that _is_ suddenly _is not._ As if John just told me what I’ve been longing to hear for so long. “I guess I love you _too_ by the sound of it.” He almost smirks. “May I?” he asks, standing.

I nod too quickly and he smiles, tears dripping down his cheeks now, too. Carefully and so gently, he climbs into bed beside me and rests his head on my shoulder.

“You cannot, for one more moment, think that this is okay. However, you are not alone. I will help you get the services that you need to move past this. You can’t keep hurting yourself. I love you too much. We love you too much. But you have to do this for you.”

“I didn’t do all this so that you’d stay,” I whisper, suddenly afraid that this is all a show. “I wouldn’t intentionally manipulate you like that.”

“Sherlock, I’ve loved you since a long time ago. I know you wouldn’t do this for me. But can you stop for me? For us?”

A small smile dances on my lips. “Us?”

“Us,” he whispers very softly.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Roo and Sandrina for pointing out that John Watson would probably have a better knowledge of safe medical practices than me and thus NOT put a belt in Sherlock's mouth to stop a seizure. This was edited to remedy that error!


End file.
